


HUNTER

by Devcon03



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M, Sticky, Suicidal Thoughts, reference to past torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devcon03/pseuds/Devcon03
Summary: Leaving Rodimus and Apelinq with Big Prime and the Wreckers, Devcon made it his goal to find the two-faced traitor Cyclonus. Fully aware of the dangerous situation, he embarks upon a hunt that will take him half across the 'verse. Along the way, Devcon is faced with both his past and the possible future of a Cybertron ruled by something worse than Megatron.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in June 25th, 2012, in LJ, HUNTER is set in G1 continuity, exploring Universe 03's take upon "Devcon the bounty hunter." This is my first NaNoWriMo story, which rounded 105K. 
> 
> The story follows Devcon from the end of issue [Enter the Wreckers - Betrayal](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Betrayal) and through [The Wreckers - Disclosure](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Disclosure) to meet up with canon at the start of [Wreckers Finale 1.](http://tfwiki.net/wiki/The_Wreckers:_Finale_Part_1)
> 
> Beta read by redseeker, but any mistake found goes down as mine.

Space was just as beautiful as Devcon remembered. 

Above and beyond, a sea of darkness spread out, swallowing every sound his engines made when he finally broke atmosphere. The cold embraced him like a lover, and he ceased to move, unable to process. Lost to the 'verse, he hung suspended in silence.

 _Move_ , he told himself. 

Nothing happened.

The spell only broke when the lingering pull of Archa Nine's gravity clawed at his newly reformatted frame, drawing his attention to far more urgent matters.

Gazing down at the alien planet, he was surprised to find it so much smaller than Cybertron. It had felt huge when he'd been stuck in that horrid drone-frame. Comparing the planets was perhaps unfair – the green world of Archa Nine thrived, and unlike Cybertron, was still alive. The old home planet was a wounded old thing, left for dead by those who'd sworn to protect it. 

_Just like they abandoned you, leaving you in_ his _hands_ , something dark and mean whispered in the back of his head. _You were disposable, worthless, once you'd served your purpose..._

His mind shied from the venomous words, and his wings shifted in distress. Those were _his_ vocals, but the words, all vile and hurtful, were not. The darkness slithering around in his processor had sunk its claws into him when he'd been a prisoner. Back then, he'd welcomed it because he'd been half mad with pain, and it had protected him from the worst abuse at the hands of Cyclonus, had somehow kept him intact when Megatron had tried to reprogram him. 

Devcon wasn't so sure about its usefulness now – lately, it had been trying to access his memory-files, whispering, _reaching_ \--

He put a swift end to it, banishing the unauthorised probe with ease. The struggle that followed was short, but intense. The fact that it _at all_ took place made him wonder whether it was a glitch, or a remnant of Megatron's little games. Either way, it needed to frag off, because he had no time to deal with it. At _some_ point, he would have to face what had been done to him in the dark, but now was not the right time. 

Perhaps there never _would_ be right a time. 

_Who the frag cares, anyway?_

Hurling his sensors before himself in massive, erratic waves, he made sure to tap into his fury again. He'd never been one to feel sorry about himself, and feeling anything beyond his base-coding struck him as horribly _wrong_. He felt a conflict between his programming and his emotions, and it made him work all the harder to find a suitable route – he needed to get out of the quadrant before whatever it was turned on him. He knew the signs of an unhinged mech, and unlike last time it happened, there was no Rodimus to rein him in if he lost it.

And, that made absolutely _no sense_. 

He couldn't get his processor around what had happened in that blasted ship. Looking back at it made it even worse. He'd been _glitching_ , but the moment the Major had called out, he'd found himself backing down. The mech's pleading vocals had somehow broken past his programming, drawing him out of his black spell. Control, or pure instinct? He couldn't know, but he was slaggin' sure he'd never followed _anybot's_ orders before. 

The sting of shame made him turn, and he spared the green planet no more thought. Without an actual route, with nothing resembling a plan, he headed towards the outskirts of the Archa system as if he had a whole fleet of mercs tailing him. 

*~*~*

More lost than he'd ever been, as every star-chart for the quadrant was either outdated or non-existent, Devcon found himself drifting aimlessly. With no time to map the area, living on the hope of finding an outpost, all he wanted was to get his hands upon some proper fuel. With the right stuff, he could attempt to make a jump.

_If you're even able to make jumps, considering what they did to you._

Yeah. 

There was that, as well...

The night sky was brilliant, stunning and perfectly cold. It wasn't enough to rid him of that one last fear that had followed him all the way from Cybertron. Funny, wasn't it? How he could ignore the way having his spark held by enemies felt like, but _not_ this?

And, what was he supposed to do, if he couldn't make a jump? What if Cyclonus got away? What if he couldn't reach Cybertron fast enough, once he'd tracked the fragger down? Primus help him, but he was _nothing_ without his port-drive.

Despair, he decided not a klik later, was possibly the worst emotion he'd ever felt. Add to it the shame he'd felt earlier, and something just broke. Primus, but his _spark-_

He heard it then, for the first time in a very long time, the ancient song that had filled his mind when he'd been brought online, soothing the pain and shame until they went away. He drew the ancient tune, and a billion stars greeted him. Just like before, they claimed him in the midst of the chaos, marked him as one of their own. He wanted to weep, because he felt the celestial song in every component of his. Muted, their cries larger than life, the stars greeted him like an old, beloved friend. He sang back, because no matter what, he was _still_ alive. 

It was over as fast as it had happened, but the precious moment gave him enough strength to push himself forward, fear be damned. Accepting the burn and pain that came with the pace he'd set, he realised hat he'd been craving the sweet ache of old times, when he'd sailed vast oceans filled with stars, forgotten worlds and dead civilisations. 

Those things would make it all real, proving that this was no daydream caused by the constant probing of his spark-

He shot straight up, spiralling madly to the memory of ghostly touches to his processor. _Primus,_ why now? It was over, for frag's sake! He was in his own frame, and he was flying, and he had _no_ slaggin' time for any of this slag. 

Wasn't he supposed to be made of tougher components? 

Others had been left broken, but he'd come out of it more or less in one bit. All this pain? Useless slag that meant nothing. So what if he'd been a prisoner twice over, or that he'd been incapable of fighting back? War was just _that_ bad.

He would face worse before this hunt was over. 

Checking himself, assuming control over his emotions, he found himself thinking of Rodimus instead. Funny thing, that. Rodimus was the only mech who'd ever dared to challenge him, and gotten away with it. The Major had never cared that others saw it fit to fear him, either. He'd somehow managed to get in under his plating, and stayed there.

Back at Archa Nine, he'd asked Devcon to stay. Rodimus, hero of old times, the one mech who knew Devcon wouldn’t suffer attachments to anybot, had asked him to stay with him. Not just once, but twice, in what could only be misguided affection. 

True to his programming, Devcon had chosen to leave. 

He felt no remorse. The Wreckers had Big Prime, Apelinq, and Rodimus to lead them. They might even succeed, for all he knew. Apelinq thought he was close to finding the answer behind the theft, and while the mech was good at picking things apart, he was no hunter. What they needed, as Devcon himself had pointed out, was somebot who could get in and out of enemy territory, and fast. What he _didn’t_ mention, was that the Wreckers lacked the firepower and skills to actually succeed at this hunt. 

Cyclonus was out there, somewhere. 

And as long as he was, there would be no slowing down. 

He would personally see the traitor torn to pieces, and the last Cyclonus would know, was Devcon's hand, crushing down on his spark. _The faster you run,_ he thought, _the slower you’ll die._

Apelinq had been revolted to see his blood thirst, but he couldn’t care any less. With the exception of Rodimus, no bot understood him anyway. Take the solution to the Decepticon problem. How often had he said it was best to kill them? _All of them. Let none live._ The High Command had refused to listen to his kind of reason. 

How many lives could have been spared if they had? 

Space, above and beyond, held no answers. 

*~*~*

Some time later, Devcon was sailing along a meteorite field whilst playing tag with volatile rocks the size of Metroplex. He was checking himself, scanning his frame with great care. It was a strange sensation – the frame was too pristine. Thanks to CatSCAN, also identical to the one Megatron had destroyed. The base-coding, the hard-coded schematics...

His glitches, even they, all the same.

 _Wonderful._

If he ever got his hands upon a crate of high-grade again, he would make sure to thank Apelinq for nothing. 

Darting between debris, he weaved his way across the field, his foul mood increasing with each klik that passed. He had nothing else to examine, nothing left to study. His analysis had confirmed what he'd noticed in Archa Nine. He'd come out taller, but only because CatSCAN had decided it was better for his mass-shifting. It didn't matter - as long as the good ol' stuff was in perfect condition, he would be able to function properly. 

The drone frame he'd been forced into had deprived him of space, slowly driving him insane, but in terms of hunting, it hadn't been much of a hindrance. Unlike others, he'd always known that being smaller, weaker, _slower_ , made no difference. It was the base-coding that did it. Which was why he'd been able to take down the Wreckers in the first place, pint-sized or not. Had they not been protected by the one mech he'd never wanted to harm in the first place, he would have stolen himself an ugly set of borrowed wings as well. 

A small, annoyed growl escaped him.

_Rodimus._

His thoughts kept returning to the Major, leaving an uncomfortable sense of loss behind. He _had_ done the right thing by leaving. The hunt came first, always. Besides, staying around Rodimus too long always somehow made him feel... strange. He didn't want to delve into their relationship, let alone the memories it brought along. Rodimus was one of those rare links to a past he would rather see erased. 

He wasn't fleeing his old friend. 

Not really, anyway. 

He would admit that it was a nice memory all in all, how they'd first met. Rodimus had been far too young for his duty, but old enough to kill for the Autobot cause. A fledgling Prime, trying his best to do what he thought was right. The poor mech not been filled in, nor informed, of how the High Command had made use of a certain hunter's services. This, for obvious reasons – Devcon wasn't the kind of mech you spoke of, lest you already knew of him. 

During the war, Cybertronians had called him many names – Devcon the bounty hunter, Decepticon-killer, murderer. _Assassin._ So many names, usually whispered in fear, sometimes uttered with hate. Even the High Command had disapproved of his nature, but he had never hidden who or what he was. The Council, however, had tried to _control_ him…

A huge rock in his path was blasted to dust.

He growled, revving his engines in defiance. That plan hadn’t worked, had it? He’d never liked the Council, but now? Now he _loathed_ them. It was painful, the amount of anger that boiled in his fuel lines. The suffering he’d been forced to endure? All because of a bunch of Maximals having been too scared to accept the truth for what it was. He wanted to kill them, but it was too late already. 

Megatron had seen to that. 

He screamed, vocals raw, filled with hate and frustration both. His _one_ chance to off Megatron had come and gone, just like that. It burnt him from within to know this, but his skills were needed elsewhere, and he had a promise to keep. Cyclonus _would_ be waiting at the end of the line, and then he would rip the traitor's spark out, and then everything would be back to how it used to be. 

It _had_ to. 

_You know it will never be all right again, so why do you even try?_

And there it was – the unbidden fear, once again given a voice by his pain. 

His spark felt small, all cold, and his wings shook in distress. It... it hurt? No. _He_ hurt, but it made no sense. Why was there a conflict within him? What was all this emotion? He couldn't find its source. He felt like fleeing, too, but why...? Was he glitching? Was it a virus, the darkness he sensed? Or had CatSCAN failed, somehow? What the frag was he feeling? _Why_ was he feeling? 

Frame tensing, he gave a snarl, and shot everything in sight. 

Had his spark been too damaged to function properly? If so, were did that leave him? It felt... different. Felt _too much_. If it was malfunctioning, then what about the rest of him? His port-drive – the very thing Megatron had been trying to steal – was it intact? 

He winced. 

Only one way to figure that out, right?

In a sudden spell of madness, he hurled himself forward. Engines shrieking, he flew as if his life depended on it, aiming for a huge meteorite in his path. The great mass filled his sight as he got closer, and his proximity sensors wailed in protest. At this rate, it didn't matter anymore, because he wouldn't be able to escape the impact, not with his speed. Death would be instant if he failed to access to the port-drive. 

The meteorite was close, but not close enough for what he had in mind. At this distance, he could see the cracks in the surface. In the back of his processor, the poison spoke to him, whispering dark, mean things. There was… temptation. 

It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? 

To let go? 

And, why shouldn’t he? This was an opportunity, after all. One that might never return. He should do it, because something was off, _wrong_ , with him. A small miscalculation here, an innocent mistake there, and then there would be no more pain. Death would put an end to the vile memories, it would quieten the keening of his spark. 

No more doubt, no pain, no more _nothing_.

The huge wall of rock came closer and closer, and with it, the promise of endless sleep. He had never been this close to self-termination. Madness, pain, and fear drove him. The way Rodimus had made him _stop_ , drove him. The fear of the black spells, drove him.

In the end, it was the beauty surrounding him that broke the madness, and brought him back from the edge. Stars, as far as his sensors could see, taste, and feel. Their song... he could _still_ hear it – here was his greatest treasure, the one thing that defined him, that he could call his own. All he had to do was to launch his port-drive, right? 

Staring death in the eye, on the verge of slamming into the great bulk, _terrified_ of failing, he dipped his wings and accessed the port-drive. 

One moment of unadulterated terror, and then surprise, as his inner workings aligned like a precious star chart. With a joyous howl, he reached within himself, and triggered necessary protocols. He shuddered – beautifully crafted, unique, this gift of his. Power exploded from his shields, and for a nano-klik he lost his equilibrium, his bulk sent off balance. 

The rock was just a handful of steps away, too close, frag frag frag, he was going to die, awwww sme _eeeelt-_

A flash of light blinded him, and the darkness seemed to waver as space itself flooded his sensory net. Liquid fire burnt in his fuel lines, and he sobbed in relief. It was all there – his port-drive, the wing-shields, the way his sensors expanded–

It was _intact_. 

Whatever madness had festered upon his processor was shredded to pieces by this knowledge – his firewalls had prevailed, and nothing had been taken away from him. They hadn’t been anyplace near the schematics to his port-drive, thank Primus. Nothing but his perspective had changed. He... _He wasn’t broken…_

No matter what he’d been forced to endure, nor how easily darkness consumed his spark – it was all but forgotten when a steady glow surrounded him. The rock was in his face when the wave of space-time hit, and he knew that this was the most wonderful thing he’d ever felt. Every ache and fear, any painful memory, became but a distant echo when the port-drive grabbed him right before he crashed into the meteorite, and physically removed him from certain death. 

Behind him, the door of light closed, taking him far, far away from the Wreckers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Rodimus and Apelinq with Big Prime and the Wreckers, Devcon made it his goal to find the two-faced traitor Cyclonus. Fully aware of the dangerous situation, he embarks upon a hunt that will take him half across the 'verse. Along the way, Devcon is faced with both his past and the possible future of a Cybertron ruled by something worse than Megatron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See prologue for A/N. 
> 
> Beta read by redseeker, but any mistake found goes down as mine.

DEVCON

.1

It was one of those forgettable, sad places, hidden away behind a nice little sun. Devcon had found it by consulting several outdated charts, and pure luck.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do now, so he hovered nearby, musing away. One thought lead to another, and soon he found himself in root-mode. His hunt would continue as soon as he was done with checking his options. Entering a situation without a proper plan would do him no good, and he'd been out of the loop far too long to entirely trust his instincts.

Back in the good ol’ times of his bounty hunting-gig, he’d been a cocky fragger, believing nothing could take him down. His reputation stated as much, anyway. He’d been feared by his enemies, accused of being a mech dangling his thrusters on the very edge by the High Council. He’d crossed the line often enough to know how things worked on the other side. A part of him rather enjoyed that bit, and a whole lot at that. 

Keeping his optics on the space station, he pursed his lips. If he studied that part of himself, what would he find? The Council had said he was a wild card, no bot to trust. Well, his morals were, at best, questionable. Then, there were all those reasons why he enjoyed hunting a bit too much, too. The question was - _if_ he sank into his base-coding, would he dare to face what would stare back at him?

... _No._

He frowned.

Perhaps not this Solar, then. 

He needed to keep his processor level, concentrated upon tracking. He had prey to chase, hunt down, and kill. Especially kill, and _slowly_ at that. For the moment being, the only thing that was allowed to matter was tracking the fragger down. Cyclonus could be anywhere, plotting mayhem. He would also be following some bot’s command. The traitor was a lapdog, a follower, and he didn’t act on his own.

Devcon frowned. So many things to calculate, and nowhere to start. His hunt wouldn’t be a successful one without information, no matter how many outcomes he could foresee. This seemed to be a good place to go through possible leads, so he better start checking up on his financials-

_…What?_

It was empty – the whole of his subspace was empty.

He stared at his chassis, searching for the things that should have been there. When it hit him, he cursed. Of course it would be empty – this was a new frame. It would have nothing from the old one, and that... That meant trouble, because he had nothing to fall back upon. 

A quick scan to his name in various networks and banks showed that everything he owned had been purged when the news of his death had been broadcasted. It meant, all in all, that he had no creds, and no deposits of energon to pick up lest he travelled back to Cybertron. All he had was that one cube Rodimus had put in his hand before letting go of him. It would buy him time to sort things out, which must have been what Rodimus intended. The mech had outdone himself trying to find all the energon the Wreckers could part with. 

Once a hero, always a hero, eh?

Next time he ran into the Wreckers, he would make sure to thank Rodimus properly – most likely by getting him filthy drunk, hunter style. A wry grin spread on his face, and, feeling a bit more like himself, he chuckled. 

_Thank you for looking after me. Glitch._

There were other things he needed to know, and reaching deeper still, he came by something quite unexpected. And, then he checked again. He frowned. This couldn't be right... Why were the weapons from the drone-frame still available? They shouldn't be there, made absolutely no sense. He wasn't a triple-former, so why did he at all have them? What was he supposed to _do_ with them? The missiles had been good to have while fleeing Megatron’s little playground, and the blades could become useful, but they were also a constant reminder of the time he'd spent in the Preds' tender care. 

_Ugh_. 

He sighed and kept looking for useful things.

A few kliks later, he was exactly where he had started out – with a disturbingly empty subspace, and no creds. Looking around, he sighed. It would do him no good, but if he wanted creds, he would have to look for work. He didn't have the time to spare, but energon was expensive, and hard to come by. Without it, he was a sitting duck. Well, there was nothing more to it – he would have to look for a job. Distractions were bad, but so was shutting down because he'd used up every reservoir in one jump too many. 

Luckily, he still was a hunter. A bounty hunter no more, yet a _hunter_ through and through. There would always be work for his kind of a mech. 

Transforming back to alt-mode, he figured that the space-station below would be a good place to start out.

*~*~*

Once upon a time, there had been some mining going on in a nearby planet.

When Devcon had found his way to it, the place had been abandoned. The only trail left were some old, barely visible feeds about a space-station a couple of stars away. Given the state of his new frame and the one cube, Devcon had decided to make a couple of jumps, and had finally ended up right in front of the hulking station.

At first sight, it had seemed just as abandoned as the planet it was connected to, but his scans told another story. There were Cybertronians in there, but they weren’t interested in being found. Too damn bad he was dying for a drink. Scratch that – after all he’d been through, he needed at least ten drinks, and some more. 

He moved closer, thrusters burning steadily, and out of nowhere, a voice reached him through an open comm-link, telling him to state his business, to prepare the cargo he was carrying for inspection, and overall to stay put until given orders to land. 

Devcon responded with shutting down the comm-link while moving closer, avoiding the larger docks, and settling for a smaller one. He flew in, ignoring the shouts directed at him – he was no fraggin' shuttle, so there would be no 'inspecting' his frame, thank you very much. He told them as much as he transformed, hovering above three surprised dockworkers and their manager, hands full of tools and odd looking limbs. 

The shape of those weapons had Devcon shuddering – they looked a bit too much like things used against him not at all long ago.

”I suggenst you take those things away, _now_.” There was gravel in his vocals, a threat emitting from every inch of his frame. ”I’m no shuttle-former, and I’m carrying nothing of worth. There's nothing that needs to be seen, scanned, groped or touched, got it? Step away, and this won’t get messy.”

They were used to this kind of behaviour, but had not seen it coming from an Autobot. The manager lowered his gaze to the insignia on Devcon's chest-plate, then nodded to his crew. He quickly sent them away, giving Devcon's chassis yet another searching look.

”This is a quiet place, mech. We don't want trouble from your kind, you hear?”

Devcon snorted, and gave the docking station an unimpressed look. ”It will still be in one piece when I leave, no doubt.”

The other mech shrugged, and gave his back to Devcon. He took one step, then suddenly stopped, only to turn his helm. He next gave the hunter's frame a good look over, tilting his helm as if to get a proper view of him. He hummed in appreciation, and continued staring. It made Devcon twitch, because he wasn't in _that_ business, nor would he be anytime soon, but the glitch wouldn't stop looking at him. 

_Frag that._

”What?” It came out as a bark, rather than a word, but Devcon didn't care. 

The other mech shrugged, then stared at his thrusters. He tapped his chin, entirely ignoring the way Devcon's cannon trained itself on him. ”I might be far away from Cybertron,” the mech drawled, ”but Autobot flyers are quite unusual. What’s your designation, stranger?”

Devcon cut his thrusters and jumped down, a movement that had the manager stepping quickly away from from him. 

”The name's Devcon,” he replied, feeling like sharing what would be horrible news for any creep this side of the galaxy. ”I’ve got no business with anybot here, but I do want to know if there are any jobs available.”

He was met with screaming silence.

A klik passed by, then another ten, before the manager spoke again.

”What kind of jobs?”

_Well, slag._ The tone said enough, really. The manager had things to hide, which was how things usually went in backwater places like this one. Devcon shrugged, and decided to run diagnostics, checking his energy levels, while wondering whether the truth would give him trouble or not. Trouble, nevertheless, was already sneaking up on him. _Fuel_ -related trouble. Making jumps on low energy was bad business, specially in the long run. He needed high quality fuel, and soon. The mech was still giving him scared looks, though.

”What kind of job?” He rubbed his helm. ”Look, I'm in search of anything that will bring me a fair share of creds, mech. I'm back on the bounty hunter gig, and I've run out of funds. Beyond that, I'm in dire need of a drink.”

The manager clicked, gurgled even, as his optics blinked rapidly. He then went quiet, and shuddered until he stopped moving altogether. Devcon tilted his helm, waited a moment or two, and then stepped around him, but the mech was lost to the 'verse. He lifted a hand and waved it in the manager's face, then poked him, but still no reaction or reply. The mech was either in stasis, or... turned off. 

”…The frag?”

He poked the mech once again, but the mech remained shut down. It wasn't entirely unusual, not with dockworkers, who usually survived on fumes alone. The mech could also be a drone, which made the whole situation suspicious. _What to do, what to do..._

A moment later, Devcon gave a sigh and walked away, leaving the drone behind. 

”Space-station my aft.”

*~*~*

The place was quiet. There weren't many bots around, and those he saw, were busy loading trucks or ships. To Devcon it seemed a bit less like a proper station, and more of a hideaway. He looked around, drawing more than one gaze. After a while he realised exactly what he was looking at, and cursed his bad luck. Those were no cargo-ships, and the bots loading them? They were no workers. They did stop working when they saw him study them, and they regarded him with hostile optics. Devcon sighed.

_Just perfect… First slaggin’ place I find, and it’s a smuggler nest._

He walked along, shaking his head. When he'd first arrived, he'd hoped for an operational space-station. In no way had he imagined the great bulk would be a smuggler-den. He was at least lucky in that sense – smugglers didn't make a lot of trouble, compared to pirates. It changed the game – if the area was truly under smuggler rule, then he would have an easier time finding news. Here, he would no doubt find work, and plenty of it, if he was lucky enough to get his hands upon the right feeds and names. All of this required a bar, of course, and one that unfortunate tourists wouldn’t find if they so tried.

He moved deeper into the space-station, pretending to know his way around the area, meeting no bot's optics. He wasn't moving aimlessly. There would be signs all over the place, he only had to find the right ones. Smugglers had their own set of glyphs, and he'd learnt a few dialects in between hunts. He would never tell them, but all things considered, he preferred hanging out in bars owned by them. They were quiet, full of gossip, and quite civil. And, if he-

_There._

Two glyphs, engraved on a lamp post. Then another on a house across the passage. He moved quickly, following the marks. He saw Cybertronians of different models, and quite a few aliens, but no bot paid him any attention. _Good_. That meant he was getting closer to his goal. If this was an actual commerce street, as the signs said, then he was a slaggin’ mini-bot. 

It took a while, but when he saw the run-down bar, he knew he’d found what he was looking for. A single glyph had been included into the pattern on the door. He smiled, no warmth in his features as he stepped into the place. Dark, decently kept. Oh, yeah. _This_ was it. It had the typical look of a smuggler bar or merc watering hole. It even had a slaggin’ jukebox. It wasn’t working, of course. They never worked, which was a code for 'we don't do business in here'. He snorted, then walked towards the bar counter, greeting the bartender with a slow nod. 

The mech, an old-looking model, tilted his helm in a greeting. ”Fuel?”

Devcon nodded, and waited to see whatever horrid slag that went for fuel in this place. Battle protocols up and ready, he relaxed, allowing his hunter programming watch his back. For the sake of it, he activated his cannon, and let his proximity sensors scan the seedy room. 

Forty-five smugglers, one hunter. He quite liked the odds. 

”You new here?”

Devcon looked up and accepted the cube, offering the bartender a small grin. He inspected the fuel once he'd opened the cube, wondering if there could be anything in it, but dismissed the danger it represented. His inner workings would burn through what ever it was quick enough, save for the taste, of course. It _really_ didn’t look like the fancy stuff he preferred. 

He drew a deep intake, then decided to try his luck, and downed the booze in one go, grimacing at the harsh taste and the horrid burn on way down. He coughed, putting the cube down while analysing the fuel. 

”What the _Pit_ was that?” Vocals slightly static, his tank rolling, the hunter continued, wishing he'd refrained from drinking at all. ”Fraggin' tasted like cheap detergent.”

”Just the local, preferred mix,” the bartender replied with an elegant shrug, looking quite impressed. ”My customers are usually local bots, and they will hardly ask for something else.”

”So you just go along and poison them?” Devcon gave the mech a dirty look – the glitch was laughing at him. The booze was strong, but he was a fraggin’ _space cruiser_. In order to get his thrusters unsteady, fuel had to be strong enough to melt grounders. The horrid drink did help him out, though. After all those jumps, anything would do. He sighed, rubbing his helm while poking the empty cube around. 

”So, would you like to tell me where the frag I am? The place's off the grid, and I've got no mentions of this station in my charts.” 

The bartender gave him an interested look, then shot a quick look over the room towards a couple of booths in a dark, quiet corner. He nodded towards them. Devcon followed his gaze, lifting an optic ridge. ”Private place, huh?”

”Pretty much, mech. And, I'm afraid you weren’t expected, nor invited.”

Devcon frowned. He recognised those vocals... When it hit him, he shutter-blinked. _The manager._ He sighed, then shook his head in annoyance. He noticed the bartender was staring at his insignia, this time through his own optics. Something told him this could, indeed, end very badly for everybot involved. 

”The place is rigged, isn't it?”

There was the sound of mechs standing up, and Devcon made a face as he stared at the cube in his hand. _Great_. It had gone straight from a perfectly nice hunt to a disaster. He actually wouldn't mind some mindless killing, but he was on a schedule, and anything that kept him from tailing Cyclonus would find itself in a deadly situation. He growled softly, sensors shouting, demanding his attention. He lifted his head and looked directly at the bartender. 

The mech looked a bit too pleased, and Devcon knew why.

”Huh… I gather they work for you?”

The mech spluttered and started to deny his observation, but Devcon growled. The low, menacing sound was barely heard above the roar of his revving engines. He nailed the would-be bartender with a murderous glare. 

”How about you tell your dogs to back off? If not, there will be very little left of you for them to return to the Well.” 

”They’ll take you apart if you do,” the mech replied, his vocals just as dark. He was no push over, but still smaller than Devcon. ”You wouldn't like that.”

”I’ve got no trouble with you, mech.” Devcon lifted the cube, offering the manager-gone-bartender to take it. ”See, I'm not hunting you, or your lot. I'm after information, a place to rest, and fuel. Nothing else.” 

The mech regarded him for a while, then took the cube straight out of his hand. ”State your business, then. You _are_ a bounty hunter, the most successful of them all, even. You can't blame us for being careful around your ilk. Beyond that, your kind isn't welcome in these areas – specially not here. Not that we get many hunters visiting.”

Devcon looked around with a sneer.

”I wonder why.”

*~*~*

They sat down not much later, the mech looking far more like a business mech than a bartender. When the lights came on, they revealed a rather handsome, if old, face.

”What can I do for you, Devcon?”

Elegant fingers, quick hands. 

The hunter pursed his lips and looked up, adding a bit of charm into his features this time. ”Information, if you've got anything that won’t cost me my spark. I sort of need it, and a mech can’t have himself groped too often.”

The mech laughed, got up, and grabbed a couple of cubes from a shelf nearby. Devcon inspected the bar more closely. There were only two doors leading out, and no windows. Forty-five smugglers, a business-mech with quick hands. One hunter. His kind of odds. He gave the stranger a shit-eating grin as he took the offered cube. He cracked it open, and inhaled the fumes eagerly. He bit back a moan. Awww, smelt – _this_ was fuel, all right.

”A connoisseur, I see.”

”…Damn right,” Devcon muttered. He sipped slowly. It had been quite a while since he’d had anything like this. It took a bit of travelling, even by his standards, to find anything the like. The mix wasn’t to be found in any civilised world, and especially not in Cybertron. It was said to be the most potent energon one could find, and was widely said to intoxicate after just one sip. A whole cube wouldn't be enough to take _him_ down, because this was what he was supposed to drink. He would become slightly dizzy after a crate or two, but who the frag was rich enough to have a whole crate of Liquid Death?

_He'd_ been, once upon a time. 

”So, you’ve been around a bit?” 

The mech was having ordinary high-grade, by the looks of it. Later, they would relax, and have softer drinks, but first... Testing the waters. 

”You could say that,” Devcon replied, smiling softly. Another sip, another searching look. ”The manager? You controlled it?”

”Yes,” the mech replied, vocals all smooth. ”This is my home, and I prefer knowing what I’m dealing with.”

_No doubt_ , Devcon thought. This was a smuggler's den, a cosy little hideaway from any jurisdiction possible. He wasn’t against such places. They were good to hunters, most of the time, but when not careful, they would turn into a dangerous kind of leisure. There were no rules here, after all, and hunters weren't immortal. 

He regarded the business mech curiously. ”You already know my des-”, he started, but was quickly interrupted. 

”Yes, I do, but I _also_ know that Devcon the bounty hunter died. The rumour spread pretty quick once your frame was found crushed beneath some thirty other Imperial Peace Marshals.” The mech leant back into his seat, optics dark. ”Yet here you are, in one piece, looking as strong and mean as ever. I won't pretend it doesn't make me curious. Yours is a story I would actually pay for, because it's not very often you meet a dead celebrity.” 

Devcon tensed, leaning away from the mech. The booth was too soft, the walls too close. He didn't like what he was hearing. If this mech knew about his... failure, then so did others. He didn't like the idea of being made a fool of, or becoming the laughing stock of the underground. 

However… 

Handled correctly, he could make use of it. No bot expected him to be alive, after all this time, did they? That gave him the upper hand, because he would be able to visit some of his old haunts, and sample a bit of info whenever needed. Not bad, eh?

The Liquid Death did wonders to his systems, and he sipped slower while pondering on what to do next. He could see a small problem with his plan – most bots knew how he looked like. The smuggler lord was right in calling him a celebrity. His signal could be cloaked, his spark signature hidden, but his face? Not so much. He wasn't happy about bots having spread the word of his assumed death either. Shaking his head in regret, he made sure to keep an impassive face, but the smuggler wasn't late to understand his predicament. 

”Mmm, I see you don't approve of the topic. Let's talk about things less grim, shall we?” 

”How about we start with your designation?” Devcon's optics narrowed. ”See, I don't like games, and I don't like being delayed either.”

The mech nodded, stretching his legs lazily. Devcon growled at the sight of his calm demeanour, and his cannon moved slightly to the side, following the smuggler's movements. There was the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn, but Devcon didn’t care any more. He grabbed his cube, then drank deeply, his face hidden in shadows by the shape of his helm. 

The business mech lifted a hand, and the others lowered their weapons. He regarded Devcon curiously, his face open, almost friendly. ”I’m called Welder, and I’m not foolish enough to try to keep you here against your will.”

The smuggler's name was unknown to Devcon, and he found no interesting information attached to it either. There were no files about the mech in question, which meant he was intelligent enough to stay clear of law-mechs, and other bots in charge. Perhaps he just didn't mess around as much as Devcon had suspected him to. 

Well, the 'verse was full of surprises lately. 

He dipped his helm, a courteous move that always worked, and smiled. He _still_ wanted intel, and something to kill for creds. ”Nice to meet you, Welder. About this galaxy… Is it controlled by any cartel, or possibly haunted by Vehicon drones?”

Welder made a face and shook his head, drinking up. Devcon had to give it to him – the mech didn't even flich when he swallowed. That was good, strong energon, by the scent of it. Just the kind a flyer would enjoy. One had to wonder, right?

Welder licked his lips before answering him. ”We aren’t interested in getting involved in any heroics, if that’s what you’re asking. And, I’ve seen no Vehicon drones heading our way. Of course, if they are hunting _you_ …”

Devcon put the cube down, golden energon spilling down his fingers with the force of his movement. Welder’s bodyguards stepped forward, but an elegant hand had them backing off. Devcon’s optics were slits, rage boiling along his spinal struts. He barely managed to keep his cannon from shooting Welder's face off. Once again, the business mech read his moods, only this time he sighed softly. 

”Nothing will happen, Devcon. I deal with energon, not with wayward prisoners or escapees. To be perfectly honest with you? I’ve got _no_ interest in drawing any Predacon interest to my home. It’s unfortunate that you found us, but I’m all for sending you off with creds, fuel _and_ information, as long as you don’t come back, or spill our whereabouts.”

_Oh, really...?_

”Say... Is there a bounty on your helm, Welder?” 

It must be, seeing how willing the mech was to make him happy. The smuggler had the good taste of looking nervous, if only for a klik or two. Devcon stretched ,and grabbed his cube, downing it in one go. The grunts surrounding them stared at him in renewed respect, but the hunter’s optics locked onto Welder with a hungry gleam.

”Let’s talk business, shall we?”

*~*~*

Another Solar, another port.

Devcon kept his head down and hurried along tall buildings. It was close to down-time, and the streets had yet to be filled by bots and drones. This place was just as shady as Welder's little playground, and to his annoyance, twice as big. More dangerous, too, or so he'd noticed on the way in. He didn't really mind – this was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of trip, anyway. 

Welder had given him useful information, and it had taken him to a planet of a system better forgotten. He knew his limits, and thus made sure of staying clear of cameras, lest he actually wanted to be seen. He would rather leave with unbroken wings, hence keeping out of the main streets and known avenues. 

As he stalked along, he suddenly felt the weight of unseen optics upon his frame. His proximity sensors were fully boosted, but they couldn’t find the source. He’d been given no warnings either, which meant somebot was concealing a signal nearby. Devcon knew how to handle such a thing, but it was a fool's errand to entirely rely on scans and sensors when there were better ways to find a cloaked signal. It just required the right gadgets.

It was getting dark, and there could be a hundred foes watching him from the shadows. 

_Did Welder sell me out...?_ He could have, but the mech had seemed far more interested in seeing him off without being reported to the law-bots looking for him. _Somebot else, then._

Devcon tensed, but kept his pace slow and measured. Give it a joor or two, and there would be life everywhere. Cybertronians, aliens or drones – all would be either heading back to work, or looking for some rough fun. He hadn't even reached the worst levels, but those optics were still upon him, somehow. He growled, felt like taking to wings, but that would be a bad choice. Bots usually never made the connection between the sleekly built space cruiser and him. 

He preferred it that way, too. Why give himself away, when it was the ultimate upper hand in any conflict? Welder _had_ been right – there weren’t may Autobots who could fly, and Devcon was all too aware of it himself. His wings and port-drive had been one of the reasons behind Megatron's interest in him, after all. Why else take him alive and let the rest perish? Why spend all that time tormenting him-

”Hey, watch it!”

He jumped out of the way for a slim mech with a cart attached to his back. The strange-looking mech snarled, and stopped right infront of Devcon’s path, giving him an angry glare. 

”What you up to, mech? Can’t you see you’ll get trampled if you don’t keep your wits around here?”

The mech inspected him closely, moved his optics from his face, down to his broad chassis, and all the way down to his thrusters. Devcon made no comment, merely stared at the rude mech in silence. When the curious glitch was done glaring daggers at him, the bastard flashed him a quick grin and turned, leaving Devcon to his own dark thoughts.

*~*~*

One thing had to be said about all smuggler pubs - they reeked.

Devcon’s olfactory senses were thus about as happy as his audios, and his head ached due to the noise levels, which were off the charts. Perhaps he'd spent too much time with the Peace Marshals, who'd not just kept a tidy house, but also a _quiet_ one. His optics were protesting too, mainly because he couldn't wrap his processor around the pub's interior. It was a slaggin' disgrace, and the colour scheme alone made his optics hurt. 

His first impression of The Socket was that it was run by amateurs. A good groon later he'd come to the conclusion that it was operated by a sadist and a half. The place was nothing like Welder's neatly run enterprise – the bots surrounding him were just a crap-load of thieves and other low-lives. Trash, all of them, with absolutely no concept of what energon was supposed to taste, smell, and look like.

Annoyed, he sank deeper into the booth, his mood dark and mean. 

Why it was so difficult to come across decent energon, he couldn’t fathom. Thieves, smugglers, pirates… What were they good for if not stealing the proper stuff? He wasn't that far away from civilisation, was he? There were a few populated systems around, with moons and mines all over. At least _one_ of them was bound to have a functioning refinery, right?

Sadly, this was exactly where he needed to be – Welder had told him about The Socket's operatives, and their industry. Apparently, they always needed somebot to keep an optic open when delivering what ever the frag they manufactured. It would be a way of earning creds while scouting for informants, or visual feeds of Cyclonus. 

That was always a start, but if he needed to spend more than a few Solars in this Pit, he would end up killing something. Or, even better, _somebot_. 

Looking around, he knew exactly who to start with – the slagger buying these seats. In his lifetime, he’d crashed all kinds of bars and pubs, and they all lacked that special something. Sometimes it was music, sometimes it was the clientele. It was rare to find a place that managed to fail in every single aspect. 

This one…?

Oh, but it came close to it. 

Devcon snorted at himself. _Frag it to the Pit, mech. You spent too much time with the Peace Marshals._. It wasn't just that, of course. Actually getting paid by the High Command to do what he'd always done had clearly softened him up when it came to comforts. Seen in retrospect, that could prove to be dangerous now that he had to fall back upon his function – hunting. 

Before joining the Imperial Peace Marshals he’d never cared about things like how a pub looked like, or what kind of booze he was drinking when digging for intel. During a hunt, you needed to be able to blend in, even if it meant drinking slag like this. 

The hunter sighed, and rubbed his chin. Save for his badge, he was already blending in, looking hard and dangerous, his face set into a scowl. That bit wasn’t difficult at all, and if anybot took notice of the insignia, there was always that ’nice mech’ act of his to fall back upon. 

He smirked, pushing the cube around with a finger. How many times had he used that trick, and gotten away with murder? Playing the friendly, courteous, and talkative mech? Oh, he was that mech, too, just not very often, if ever. Well, not always... He _could_ be that mech for longer periods of time if he felt like it. He _had_ played nice with his fellow Imperial Peace Marshals, had let them see him relaxed, civilised even. It hadn't been all a lie, and it kept them from asking too many questions. 

The only drawback was the utter horror in their faces when they saw him hunting. 

It had been fun to prove that he _could_ keep it by the book, though. He'd been told often enough that a law-mech wasn't supposed to act like a 'Con. _Well, about that..._

In case he was being watched, he lifted the cube and downed the damn thing. It actually hurt on the way down, and while grimacing, he laughed at the memory. It was a joke, this thing about keeping it by the book. Half of the Marshals had been anything but lawful. He'd been proud of the various tricks he used to fool his prey, but the Marshals had been _brutal_ when going after the enemy. Funny how they were allowed to lose it, yet _he_ was restrained… 

Until they’d realised that his skills were good to have around, anyway.

There had been… _situations_. Bad ones, requiring another kind of expertise. At first, the High Command had demanded more civilised hunts, but then the attacks had escalated, and that was what tipped the scale over to his favour. After a rather messy attack in Iacon, he’d been asked to use whatever means he had to draw the ’Cons out. He’d been successful, of course, and over a short period, he’d even become famous. Old records were brought to light, and then everybot wanted to be his friend, because he'd been so successful. During this time, he'd also gotten dirty rich... 

Devcon made a face – it was no good to remember those creds now. They were in Cybertron, in his old quarters, or hidden away in different accounts over various space stations. He was also officially dead, and couldn't tap into those accounts anyway. Until he found a way around that, his expensive collection of perfectly aged booze was just a dream. Yet, with some luck, he would be able to find a trail leading him to far more civilised areas, with plenty of energon to choose from. 

_If_ he found a trail.

This hunt wasn't like anything he'd been involved in before, and he was old as slag. He had to find a visual lead, or somebot who knew where Cyclonus would be found. Or would be heading towards, by all means. The prospect of finding a bot willing to betray a 'Con or part from creds diminished with every passing klik. 

He huffed, and glanced towards a viz screen, reading local feeds and ads alike. He’d been keeping tabs on it since his arrival. That viz screen was the sole reason for his trip, because Welder had told him about the various networks connected to The Socket. With some luck, he would be able to find valuable data for his hunt. Sometimes, the business mech had explained, mercs coded their feeds and spread it all over the available networks in the local galaxy. Since most mercs didn't want to be found, they made sure to keep a low profile. 

One had to know what to look for, to find the right trail. 

Devcon would be entering dangerous grounds from now on, because there was no great love between bounty hunters and mercs. They often competed about the same gigs, and getting in the way of mercs was nothing he actually wanted. Mercs were Neutrals, but they often changed sides, selling each other out as a hobby. He'd learnt to be careful around them – they wouldn't mind making a nice profit out of his shell, especially once it became known that ”Devcon the bounty hunter” was alive, and behind enemy lines.

The viz screen held no new information, and they had refreshed it twice since last time he'd looked at it. A few names dropped, a couple of skirmishes mentioned… The actual news proved to be more interesting. There was a missing femme, and three dead mechs had been found nearby a smelt. Some local gangs teaming up against some organic baron… Well, _that_ might bring creds in if he became desperate enough. Otherwise, no clues to the whereabouts of a stupid-looking mech in purple whatsoever.

He sighed, and poked the cube again, watching the disgustingly weak energon move randomly in its container. 

There was another option – he _could_ raise havoc, and make sure to get his answers the usual way, leaving his own trail of dead mechs behind. He’d done such things in the past, and had always managed to get what he wanted, jumping himself out when things got bad. But, if Cyclonus had left traps behind, they would all be triggered by that. The fragger knew him, had spent some sweet time learning whatever he could about the hunter. 

The viz screen was still offering nothing of worth. 

Devcon sighed, and leant back, staring at the dirty ceiling with a suffering look. _Great, just great._ The next update was in five joors, and-

”Looking for a job?”

The hunter recognised the sound of those vocals, and the lack of signal immediately. Carefully schooling his features into an arrogant scowl, he lowered his gaze and grunted in false surprise - it was the sleek mech from earlier, the one almost running him over. _This_ was the mech spying on him earlier? Well, that would explain a few things. 

He tilted his helm curiously, watching the stranger with intense, blue optics, otherwise keeping his silence. What was this about?

”Well, do you?”

Devcon made a low, warning sound in the back of his throat, forcing himself to stay seated. How the _frag_ had this one managed to follow him all the way from the port? He'd been careful, more than usual. Unless he’d been followed from a distance...

Frag, frag, _frag…_

A quick look around the bar left him with dread in his tank – there were no windows, and too many optics watching. He should have been expecting it, but of all the outcomes, he actually hadn't calculated _this_ possibility. How foolish of him, to rule out the possibility of this mech finding him again. There was no such thing as a coincidence, after all, and now he was trapped in the worst of places for a fight. 

As for an answer, he merely shook his head, looking away. 

He needed to process in peace, and it would do him no good to lose his patience now. Sadly, the mech didn’t get the threatening gloom coming his way, or simply ignored it. He grabbed a chair from nearby, sitting down in front of the booth, not quite bold enough to sit in the booth itself. Devcon stared, fighting down his first impulse, namely to blast the stranger into oblivion. His disbelief must have been visible, because the mech – all slender, with intense green optics – pointed towards the viz screens, looking perfectly innocent.

”I almost ran you over, before. Didn’t apologise, did I? Anyhow, I saw you before, when you were watching the screens, and I figured you were looking for a job?”

Devcon didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed his empty cube, and pretended to sip, fingers hiding the fact that the cube was already empty. The slender mech seemed a little too interested in him, didn't even try to conceal it. When he didn't go away, Devcon made a face. ”Staring isn’t polite,” he said quietly, wishing he'd planned a way out in forehand. 

The mech lifted an optic ridge, and kept watching him. Devcon shifted under the gaze, and looked away again, schooling his features into boredom. 

”Not interested, pal.” 

There was a strange shift in the atmosphere, and he recognised the sensation created by whatever gadget the mech used to distort his signal. It was impossible to ignore the push against his sensors, and it bothered him. No – it _irked_ him, but he wasn’t in a mood for games. Outwardly relaxed, he crossed his arms, shadows hiding his features. Perhaps the bastard would go away if he feigned sleep- 

”But, I have a job, and I pay well!” 

…Or _not._

When Devcon didn’t reply, the mech leant forward and grinned, green optics practically blazing. ”I can also give you access to the networks, if you prefer?”

That got Devcon’s attention. He looked up, and regarded the mech with cold optics. This whole deal? It smelt trap a long way. A mirthless grin spread across his face. Well... So, he _had_ been kept under surveillance upon entering the spaceport. Sometimes it paid to have the experience of thousands of hunts, because he just knew somebot was trying to play him. That deal was too sweet to be true, and he wasn't fooled by any means. 

He chuckled, and gave the stranger a lazy grin. ”…That so?”

So the hunter was the one being hunted, eh? Change of plans, then. If he was being watched, then somebot knew what he was up to. His smile became a tad wilder, giving him a mean look. Two could play that game. He nodded to himself, then made a show out of stretching. He needed more time to figure out exactly how fragged he was. Nevertheless, who would gain from slowing him down? Who would profit from him losing track of Cyclonus? 

Well, the bastard himself, but other than that? 

The seemingly young mech before him sat still, and Devcon allowed himself a proper look. That frame, all slender, what did it transform into? He’d seen the cart attached to his back, but it hadn’t given anything away. It was nowhere to be found now, and the hunter had to give it to him – it was a beautiful display of roguish youth he was being served. The question was what to expect from him. Injections? Projectiles? Laser core weapons? 

Bombs? 

Devcon almost purred – now, _that_ would be interesting, indeed. It didn't happen too often, really, and most bots weren't bold, or ingenious enough to go after _him_ with bombs. Bots usually fled him, and attacked only once risking defeat.

The stranger still had nothing to say, his signal all distorted, making Devcon's sensors itch. 

”If I crack the merc codes so you get into their network, will you take the job? You would be able to find more jobs that way, since you’d be the first to spot them.”

Devcon snorted ungraciously. The frag...? Did the mech actually think he would take the offer? He waved a hand, shaking his head with a look of boredom all over his face. ”Why would I be interested? Most bots aren’t _that_ stupid, you know. Mercs don’t like it when outsiders steal their profit. And, I’m starting to wonder whether you are trying to get me killed, pal.” 

The mech suddenly twitched, arms rolling with nervous energy. Devcon tilted his helm, trying to scan him again, but ended up with the same sense of nothingness. A deeply wrong kind of pulsating nothingness. 

”You should come with me,” the mech said, vocals raspy. ” _Now._ ”

Devcon frowned, seeing what he'd missed all along. Of course... So, that was why the fragger kept throwing his sensors off. If _he_ was the bomb, then it all made sense. Now he just had to figure out how to get away without transforming. If he did, he risked bringing down the ceiling on top of himself. If hurt, he wouldn’t be able to take to wings. He grimaced. If there was something he deeply disliked, it was being forced to act.

”Nah nah nah... I'm not desperate enough to hack the merc network, and I’m not taking _any_ job of yours, got it?” He revved his engines, growling softly. ”See, I like myself in one piece. And, who the frag sent you after me? Cyclonus? Some minion of his?” 

His vocals were soft, yet held the promised of pain. His head-cannon trained itself on the slender mech. 

”Oh... And, when you see him, tell Cyclonus that Devcon sent his love, and that I _will_ rip his head off.”

_Stalemate, fragger. Let’s see what you do, shall we?_

*~*~*

In retrospect, Devcon mused, he should have expected something like this.

He gave a short, mean laugh and kicked his way through debris and bits of... He made a face – _bits of mechs_. Ugh. He hissed, and lifted a hand to check his jawline where something had cut it. It hurt like the Pit. He didn't even want to imagine what would have happened if the booth's roof hadn't fallen over him in the blast, shielding him from the worst damage. He traced the tiny wound, looking around the glorious aftermath.

Half the pub was gone, blasted to pieces. He hated to be right, sometimes. No wonder he hadn't been able to pinpoint the mech's signal – there hadn't even been one to start with. No spark, a bomb all the way... _Lovely_. He kicked a table away, and found a half a leg. The rest of the mech was gone. He crouched, inspecting the limb. If he’d been good with spare parts, this would have helped him to figure out where the drone had been been distributed, built. This was bespoke goods, expensive at that. He'd love to tear the creator to pieces - his jaw fraggin’ hurt!

Scanning the piece for further explosives, he made sure to rein his sensors in. Just in case. Once the limb was cleared, he sub-spaced it. He wasn't in the mood for being questioned, and hissed at the burns on his lower arms once he got up. He felt awful. There were too many distractions, and for a mech of his calibre, this was close to torture. 

Cyclonus wasn't playing anymore. 

Had he left other surprises for him along the road? Most likely. What had triggered the explosion? The fact that he'd refused the job, or the usage of Cyclonus' designation? These questions would have to be answered. This mess forced him to change his plans. The only good to come out of it, was that he now possessed a lead. It was safely tucked away, for now. 

Later, when he'd made it out of this slaggin' galaxy, he would track down a couple bots who had over countless stellars helped him on various accounts. They would know whose handiwork he'd almost been blown up by, or so he hoped. There was little for him to do now but to watch his back on the way out. 

He cycled a deep intake, looking forward to the solar he would be able to get his hands upon the traitor and hit his face until there was nothing left. He stepped around the worst debris, climbing almost. The bomb was Cyclonus's way of saying that it was personal. He'd known that Devcon would find a way out of the Archa system. Thus, he'd made sure to raise the stakes a bit. 

If Devcon wanted his revenge, he would have to expect the unexpected. He grinned coldly at that. Fine. He would take it, take all of it, because it had been _Cyclonus_ hurting him most of the time. It was _beyond_ personal, and Cyclonus knew as much. 

Rodimus had known, too. 

The hunter stopped in his tracks and shuttered his optics, a shiver moving up and down his spinal-struts. His... The... _Little Prime_ , he thought. _You knew I would never be able to stay. And, still you tried to give me an option – to stay with you, or to leave._

Staying had been out of the question – he wanted Cyclonus dead, because had he been an inch weaker, he would have been a 'Con by now. Cyclonus was just _that_ good, courtesy of who he'd been in another life-time. The only reason Devcon had remained intact was because he was meant to be free, and _no_ bot would ever change that.

_…You sure about that?_

A wave of dizziness made his tank roll, and he grunted. _No_ , he was no bot's toy. Not Cryotek's, not Megatron's. Absolutely not _Cyclonus's_. His spark was too strong for anybot to tame, and it would remain that way. Yet, as he forced himself to move again, he felt insecure, because hadn't-

Reaching quickly into his base-coding, Devcon flooded his lines with the sweetness of the hunt, erasing the unwanted emotion. The high reminded him of what truly mattered – his hunts, the night sky, being his own mech. By the time he stepped out of what was left of the bar, he felt nothing but hunger, and taking to wings had never felt better. 

His thoughts, however, remained with the Major. 

How odd it must be, to always think the best of everybot – the likes of _him_ included. In his current state, Devcon felt profound fondness. It had been futile to resist him, because Rodimus had always known how to approach him, to make him talk. Not even the fact that he'd chosen the Autobots' side on a whim had stopped the Major from craving his friendship. 

Foolish mech...

By now, Big Prime would have sweet talked his old friend into greater, dumber heroics. Devcon's face went dark – had his spark just constricted? He shrugged it off. Rodimus had once been a Prime, and he was perfectly able to take care of himself. A hero of old times. Devcon had _never_ been a hero, had no intentions to become one. He had a mech to kill, and nothing would stop him from tracking him down. 

_Nothing._


End file.
